


That darkest of dark moods.

by downdeepinside



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Minor mentions of drug use, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-03-18
Packaged: 2017-12-05 18:11:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/726296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downdeepinside/pseuds/downdeepinside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t that he felt suicidal, as such. It was simply that the detective spent so much time claiming he was a sociopath that he almost believed it himself. When he was sad, he wasn’t simply sad for what had happened recently, he was sad for everything that had happened ever.</p>
<p>Sherlock's feeling a little less like a sociopath than normal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That darkest of dark moods.

It’s been years since it’s been this bad.

No. That’s a lie.

It’s been a year since it’s been this bad.

No. That’s still not quite right.

It’s been one year, three months, two days and seven hours since it’s been this bad.

Because one year, three months, two days and three hours ago Sherlock Holmes met Dr John Hamish Watson. And that was the day that things had stopped being truly terrible. That was the day Sherlock stopped feeling like his heart was not that, but in actuality a vast black hole that didn’t suck things in but merely captured the attention of others and forced them to run away before they were drawn in and found themselves suspended in empty space for the rest of time. That was the day Sherlock realised that everyone had been right when they said he was something akin to a star, but that he was wrong when he assumed that he would not be the star that erupted into a bright ball of superfluous energy that lit up the sky of an entire galaxy but instead the star that erupted into a large sucking mass of hell.

Before Sherlock met John he was not merely alone, or simply lonely, but actually empty. He had been empty and with such emptiness came frequent dark moods that were so very different to the ones John saw when there was a lull in crimes for the self-proclaimed consulting detective to investigate. These dark moods came with an itch in his fingers that demanded he push a plunger of a substance - _any_ substance into his veins to feel the sweet release from God’s cruel grip on him in this world – and a vice constricting round his throat that made talking and even breathing seem impossible, as well as the need to put himself in danger not because he enjoyed it but simply because if he were in danger he might _die_ and that would be an awful lot better than his current predicament.

It wasn’t that he felt suicidal, as such. It was simply that the detective spent so much time claiming he was a sociopath that he almost believed it himself and so when his emotions finally did get the better of him it was not the same as emptying out a glass that had only recently been filled but more like toppling a pyramid of giant buckets all brimming with feelings and thoughts that even the man himself thought he’d forgotten about.

When he was sad, he wasn’t simply sad for what had happened recently, he was sad for everything that had happened ever.

Every six months he’d suddenly crash and find himself needing to buy – and if that weren’t an options he’d find himself in the bedroom that was always reserved for him at Mycroft’s (far too large) house with all the curtains drawn closed and the radio turned to the beautiful place between stations were it simply shushed him to sleep for hours on end and didn’t seem upset when it didn’t succeed.

But six months had come and gone, twice since John. His last blackest of black moods had ended the morning he got up and decided to help Lestrade with the case he’d been talking about for the past few weeks, heading down to the morgue with his riding crop in hand and an almost optimistic outlook for the day. It was as if somehow, subconsciously, he had known. That day would be the day that changed everything.

Though, in hindsight, given his current predicament, perhaps that hadn’t been the day things had changed.

Sherlock had felt it coming on all week, he had completed two cases and barley felt a thing. He didn’t even notice when John told him he was amazing.  He’d barley bat an eye lid when John had packed up his bag two days ago and went away to the conference in Bristol.

And then, finally, today. He woke up from a deep sleep he hadn’t intended to fall into (always a bad way to start a day, with papers stuck to your face and a brand new acid mark on the kitchen table) and forgot how to breathe for almost an entire sixty seven seconds.  He’d then stood slowly from the table and found himself simply standing, arms hang limply to his sides and absolutely no idea on earth what he was going to do. The thought of picking up and hearing the hum of his violin sounded truly atrocious, starting a new experiment would involve cleaning up the last failed one and thinking seemed far too dangerous a game to play today. So he went to the living room and pulled the curtains shut, although it was five in the morning and pretty dark outside anyway, before turning the lights out (only two on, the bathroom and the one in the entrance to 221B).

Sherlock rarely ventured into his bedroom, the neatness of it in comparison the living room he so enjoyed to lounge in often both surprised and disorientated him. Yet today he needed the straight black lines of his room, decorated only with a constant (unchanging) periodic table and some Chinese scripture from his childhood home. He didn’t know why he kept it. John would say sentiment; Sherlock thought it was more for consistency.

He stepped into his bedroom, pushing the door shut and toeing off his shoes. He pulled off his shirt before giving up on the effort of undressing and falling into bed with his suit trousers still on. He tugged the duvet up until his face was covered and sunk into his pillow as much as the laws of science allowed him to. The he counted. He counted to four, before stopping and starting again. He continued this cycle because somehow – while it didn’t change how he felt – it distracted him from the true awfulness of everything.

It was about twenty minutes into his counting he realised his pillow was damp.

Thirty minutes in he realised he was gasping for air and his entire body was trembling not with cold but sobs.

It was two hours later that he heard footsteps in the flat and felt a strong – yet still slightly hesitant – hand on his shoulder and opened his eyes to a slightly brighter world.

**Author's Note:**

> I adore kudos (hint hint) but also a review would be most appreciated. This is only a short drabble so I'm going to leave it at just one chapter for now but I maaaaay continue. I can't decide. Would you mind giving me your opinions?


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